


A Vienna Visit

by slaccincodrum



Category: Beethoven - Fandom, Mozart - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Music, wolfy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 21:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7657360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaccincodrum/pseuds/slaccincodrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The young and eager student Ludwig van Beethoven have arrived in Vienna. We follow his visit there from what he writes in his journal.<br/>"Once I arrived back at my lodgings I was far too tired to write anything, but now here it is – the full account of my unfortunate meeting with Wolfgang Amadè Mozart. And for as long as I am alive, I pray to God that I shall never have to see that man ever again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Vienna Visit

**Author's Note:**

> I probably only did 20% of the research I should have done for this fic. If anything looks weird, pop my a message and I'll do my best to fix it. The story is based on a real Vienna visit that Ludwig made at the age of 16, but basically all that happens in the fic is fiction.

**4 th of April 1787, Vienna**

Vienna, Vienna! Such a wonderful city. I say, Paris might be romantic, Rome might be powerful, but they all lack that certain elegance, that certain finesse which Vienna indeed possesses. It has an air of Royalty, but a modern kind of Royalty, an academic kind. It speaks to me.

But enough of that. You can tell, I assume, that I am excited to be here, and it is not just the libraries and the oh so famous café life. It is time I finally share with you my reason for coming here: tutoring, and you would not be able to guess from who. I will not spoil it just yet. I will let you know, though, that I have been invited to his lodgings this very afternoon, and I intend to dress as smartly as I can. It is of utmost importance that I make a good impression if he is to take me on at all. It is in moments like these that I wish I was not too proud to wear a wig, but it feels like such a waste to put on a wig at sixteen. Why, I might go bald before my time!

Anyhow, I am to be presentable, although he is not my superior by frightfully many years – I have been told he is just over thirty, and that really is not all too bad. I must watch myself now, so that I do not end up giving too much away. Auf Wiedersehen, and I will do my best to get back to you after the meeting has taken place!

 

**5 th of April, 1787, Vienna**

I regret I could not spare the time to write anything more yesterday. I was far too tired by the time I got back home, but I shall now gladly, or should I say regretfully, recall here all that which happened yesterday.

I was beyond myself with excitement when I left you yesterday. I got changed into my second finest wear: an especially well-fitted jacket of deep red velvet, a white silken shirt with frills commissioned in Leipzig, bronze mocha trousers and a pair of brand new boots which my father was thoughtful enough to buy me just before I set of on my journey to here, polished ever so shiny. I allowed the housemaid to double-check my efforts, after which she helped me with my hair and toilette. I say, the perfume makers that I favour so much from Paris, they really know their trade. I smelled as fresh as a rose, and the maid swore that I looked just as beautiful and delicate. I am willing to admit that I tipped her quite heavily for that, but then again, she really is _such_ a sweet girl. Mona, I’ve been told, is her name.

Next I was in my carriage, nauseous with nervousness and travelling sickness. It really is such an awful thing to go in a carriage all by yourself. Why, you will have absolutely nothing to distract yourself with! When at long last we arrived I felt ready to faint. The house itself was in the middle of town, and not all too fancy by the looks of it. Small, crammed in between two equally small houses, and one had to knock to attract any attention from its inhabitants. When I did, an old lady opened up, dressed in a dirty apron and a positively frayed dress.

“ _Ja, bitte_?” Her impoliteness was bordering on boredom.

“I am here to see Herr Mozart, we have an appointment.”

She nodded, curtly. The door closed temporarily, and I could hear her ascend the stairs inside. A moment later she was back, holding the door open for me.

“I’ll show you upstairs”, she said.

I felt positively insulted. Was this how Mozart usually treated his guests? If so, I would feel very much inclined not to return. Oh, had I only listened to my initial senses, those warnings of the innermost soul! Had I only turned my back on that house before I set my foot inside it! But no. I followed the lady upstairs into a little hallway. She opened the door to our right, a little red door, so low that I had to crouch ever so slightly to get through it.

“He’s here, Maestro”, the lady announced, and quite unnecessarily I might add, for Mozart was sitting together with two other men around a table just in front of us. The lady bowed her head to them, and then, with surprising agility, she walked backwards through the door and closed it behind herself.

“Maestro”, I greeted, copying the lady.

“Ah, but you must be _junge Herr von Beethoven_!” Mozart exclaimed. The other men stayed quiet, but appeared to be watching us attentively.

“Yes”, I answered, suddenly flustered.

Mozart, in his whole appearance, hardly looked past twenty five, but he had premature wrinkles beneath his eyes which he had attempted to hide, unsuccessfully, with makeup. He looked generally healthy, although very skinny, and even though his living quarters seemed to suggest otherwise he wore the uniform of a very wealthy man.

“Well then, I’m sorry _meine Herren_ , but we have to break it up here”, Mozart said, addressing the two strangers. I noticed him shuffling something down from the table. Money? A deck of cards? Perhaps, even, both? The men all grunted, but got up to bid Mozart farewell. They took no notice of me. I realized now, too, that they appeared to be much older than Mozart. They must have been of fifty years, the least, or perhaps they were just working class men.

“So, Ludwig”, Mozart said, when at last the two men had left the room and closed the door behind them. “Can I call you Ludwig?”

I told him that he could, after all, as a student and inferior it was quite acceptable to be known by your Christian name to your master. Encouraged by his hearty tone, I went as far as to reminding him of our appointment.

“Why of course!” He cried. “I do hope you don’t find it too much of a fuss to be doing this, but one has to be very careful with how one goes about to find his pupils. Not only do they need to be promising, but it can really be quite as important for the personal chemistry to… work.”

I assured him that it really did not seem like much fuss at all, and he showed me into the neighboring room. It was a parlour of sorts, in which there was a divan, several sitting chairs, a low table and, of course, a piano. Mozart gestured towards it in a vague sort of way.

“Take a seat, please”.

He then had me play several pieces for him, some of them his own, others the work of such men as _Bach, Händel_ and _Vivaldi_. All in all, I think we spent about an hour by that piano. I didn’t really feel like Mozart was paying a lot of attention, however. Multiple times I caught him staring out of the window or examining his nails. His hands, although white, smooth and all-around aristocrat like had a rather course air around them. His palms were wide, his fingers comparatively short and thick. His nails were as well kept as those of a lady. As I at long last finished playing my final piece, I turned to him.

“How do you like it, Maestro?”

“Oh, please, call me Wolfy. Everyone does.”

I was perplexed. “Wolfy?”

“Why, from Wolfgang, of course.”

Of course. I was so confused that I did not even know whether I ought to have been cross with him or just to laugh at this very improper suggestion. The boundary he was overstepping made me feel positively uncomfortable, and dangerously so. What was his aim? To disillusion me? If so, he had succeeded the moment I met his landlady. Or was he just making fun of me? With anger, I thought that if that was really the case, then he would be succeeding once more. To hide this inner monologue, I simply smiled and said: “Naturally.”

“Would you care for a little refresher?” Mozart asked, cleverly avoiding to give his opinion on my piano playing once more. I said that I would be delighted. He asked me to sit down in one of the sitting chairs, and briefly went out into the other room. He returned a short moment later informing me that he had called his landlady, Frau Schwartz, to bring up a bottle of wine and something to eat. I felt myself growing hungrier by the minute, so I could not really complain.

While waiting for the meal, Mozart asked me all sorts of questions. Where was I staying? How was my father? What did I think of Vienna? Had I ever been tutored before? I answered all of these questions to my best abilities. Unfortunately, Mozart never seemed satisfied with any of my answers, and would often interrupt me in the middle of a sentence to ask me yet another question. It was tiresome, and I was quite relieved when, at length, Frau Schwartz returned with the requested items and we began our meal in silence.

After a while, Mozart got talking about his time in Rome. He was quite lively – perhaps it was the wine. Anyway, he did not shy away from telling me about the ballet girls, the court girls and the plentiful street girls. He seemed discouraged when I didn’t immediately join in this conversation.

“Say”, he turned to me, “have you had much experience with the fair sex?”

I told him that I had not had much time for women, and that he had to remember that I was only sixteen yet. The first statement, however, was a lie, but I was sure I would not be found out. Mozart had always residenced  too far away from my home to possibly know of all the rumours that had been flying around as of lately, most of which were true, and most of them revolving certain women that I may or may not have had a lot of experience with.

Mozart nodded with all the perceived wisdom of an old man, after which he said: “How about I give you your first lesson right away?”

At first I was bewildered, and it took me several moments to figure out that he had led the conversation back to the topic of tutoring.

“Y-yes!” I blurted out, immediately regretting what I had just agreed to, for it was getting quite late. I should want to return soon, lest my driver should be worried. Instead, I sat down by the piano, and Mozart had me play a piece by _Haydn_. This I felt I could master, because I was very familiar with his work having studied it closely on my own, but as soon as I started to play Mozart would go on to correct the way I sat, the way I moved my fingers, the speed I played certain parts and so on. As little as I would care to admit it, I learned quite a bit from it. Next, we played another piece by _Bach,_ but together this time. I have to say that although Mozart’s technique was superior to mine in a great many ways, I felt that he lacked that certain passion that _Bach_ ’s music calls for.

As the song came to its end, Mozart moved his hand ever so slightly to touch mine. I shied away – to press the correct keys to end the piece of course – but this left Mozart unsatisfied. Instead, he rudely grabbed me by the hand, and then he just held it. This man!  I had not known him for longer than a few hours, yet already he assumed us to be the best of old friends! I should, oh, I should have slapped him across the cheek and walked out of that damned house, never to return. Foolish me! As it was, I just sat there, too dumbfolded to do anything.

“I say, Ludwig”, Mozart said, while examining my hand which he had now placed in his lap, “you really are a gorgeous young man. Ah, yes, so gorgeous, but it would appear to me that your beauty can only reach so far – alas it is only skin-deep.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said, highly offended.

“I’d like to blame it on your tender age, yes, maybe that is indeed it – you are still too unexperienced with life. You seem to me so entirely without humour, so without imagination. Why, if there is any passion at all in that pretty body of yours, it must be under the hardest possible restraint. I wonder…” He trailed off, looking deep into my eyes. I could only stare. Never in my life had I felt more insulted.

I was quite startled when his hands started trailing up along my arms and shoulders, as if he was evaluating my physique. My heart started beating faster. Mozart was closer now, and I could feel the smell of musk and lavender, why, his perfume maker must have been as much of an expert in his art as mine were. Beneath his powdered wig I could just make out some strands of brown hair, a few shades lighter than my own. His hands had reached the hem of my jacket.

“It’s so warm in here, why don’t you take this off?” Without waiting for my response, which would indeed have been negative, he started to undo the buttons.

“Now, really…” But my feeble protests were in vain. Upon re-establishing eye contact, Mozart put one finger to my lips, bidding me to stay quiet, while he kept his other hand still busy undoing the buttons. Feeling like a play-doll, limp and immobile, I then allowed him to take the jacket off completely. Mozart studied the fabric close, and exclaimed: “Why, this is absolutely divine! I must have my tailor make me one exactly like this.”

I sat without moving, blushing wildly, unsure even of where to start. “M-Maestro, I mean, Wolf-“but I cut myself short. I simply could not. I settled for the middle way. “Herr Mozart”, I began anew.

“Oh, come on now, Ludwig,” Mozart said.

“No. I’m sorry, Herr Mozart, but I can’t.”

“Oh, but you are really so terribly boring!” Mozart stood up and put his hands on my shoulders. He looked me straight in the eye, his cheeks deeply flush. Was he perhaps intoxicated?

“All these formalities, they don’t suit someone like you, someone so young! And if I want to skip the titles and all the boring little rituals of politeness, then I am, as your superior, in my full rights as to do so. It’s a new age, Ludwig, a human age!” Upon saying this, his hands moved from my shoulders to the frills of my shirt, searching for more buttons to undo. “So please, stop being so boring…” This is the new way of the aristocrats, everyone is doing it.”

Helpless once more, I allowed Mozart to unbutton and take off the shirt too, leaving me in only trousers, boots and undergarments. “Where is Frau Schwartz? I asked, rather meekly.

“Fast asleep downstairs in her rooms, no doubt”, Mozart said. I realized it must already be part nine in the evening. I wondered whether my driver was still waiting for me outside, or if he had gone home for the night. I would have to give him a beastly tip tomorrow either way, as a thanks.

My train of thoughts were interrupted by Mozart, who had given up undressing me past this point for the moment and was now holding my hand, tugging it, urging me to stand up. As I did, we moved away from the piano and, ever so lovingly, Mozart laid me down on the divan. I was slightly too tall for it, so my boots stuck over the edge ever so little. Mozart kneeled at my feet and took off my boots, admired my socks in pure silk, real Chinese. Next, he stood up to admire his work so far. A little sigh escaped his lips. “Ah… _Du bist wirklich sehr schön_ , so exquisite, truly… “

He seemed to be getting impatient, all the while flustered; he took off his jacket. He sat down on the edge of the divan, at level with my hips. I could not seem to move even an inch. He let his fingers trace my cheeks, my nose, my lips… He leaned forward, his scent completely overpowering me, and as he kissed me my lips where hopelessly unresponsive. Mozart withdrew.

“I do not… understand”, I whispered.

For the first time that evening, I thought that Mozart’s face revealed a certain amount of regret, perhaps even sadness, but as soon as that thought struck me the moment was already over. Mozart sat back up again. “Do you believe in platonic friendship?” He asked.

“I- I do not…”

“See, the love between a man and a woman… It’s revolutionary. It’s one of a kind. It’s like magic, like fireworks, like a victory after a long war.”

I nodded. I knew of this. I was used to flirting with girls, to writing love letters and even sometimes, being allowed to touch them. I had kissed to many even to be able to count it on the fingers of my two hands.

“But the love between a man and another man”, Mozart continued, “is, although of a slightly different kind, not any less strong. It is not a revelation, like that between a man and his woman, it is more subtle, I think. And it is juster, less unfair – it comes to whomever wishes to have it, for it is easier to attain. It is expressed in companionship, not marriage, and it pays in trust, or money, or position, not in children. The rest is very much the same.” And upon saying this, Mozart caressed my hair, as though absent minded.

“But we only just met today”, I said. I moved my hand from under me and let it rest in his lap.

He shuddered slightly at the touch. “I know”, he mumbled, “but you are so young and so beautiful. I felt I needed to show you…” He grabbed my hand and placed it atop his shirt, just above his beating heart. I could feel it flutter inside his chest, like a nervous butterfly, but I knew Mozart was not nervous – he was merely full of anticipation. Without asking, I freed my other hand and begun to unbutton his shirt too. It was rougher than mine, less fine, so the buttons were twice as easy to find and I struggled very little. I could feel his breathing quickening, his breaths growing all the more shallow. Why, he was almost shaking with restraint excitement. Slowly, slowly, I let the shirt come off his torso and shoulders to reveal his course linen undergarments hidden beneath. He breathed out in a long sigh, as if I had freed him from a heavy burden. I shifted from lying down to half sitting up, collecting his shirt, folding it and placing it on the floor just underneath the divan, all the while breathing in the scent from Mozart’s neck. I realized now that although we were of roughly the same height, his shoulders were slightly broader than mine, and his neck slightly thicker. I wondered whether he had been partaking in any sort of manual labour. Maybe it was from playing the violin for many years. I had never met a violin player this intimately before.

As soon as the shirt was dropped onto the floor, Mozart turned around and gently pressed me back down onto the divan, facing the ceiling. There was a great heavy tension between the two of us, and the way he hurriedly kept brushing my hair back and caressing my face only helped to build it up even further. I felt his hand trace my leg, and I just had time to register how very high up on my thigh he let it rest before he kissed me yet another time. Though still slightly surprised at this sudden outburst of affection, at least this time I was fully responsive. It was a mild, gentle kiss, yet passionate in the way we stressed out movements. It was so different from all the other kisses I had had, all the hasty, bashful pecks with inexperienced, slightly ashamed girls. This was something else, something so very real and adult-like, and something so frankly intoxicating that I was afraid it would stop, but at the same time equally afraid that it should continue.

Yet I could tell that for Mozart, this was merely routine. With precise sweeps of his tongue he explored my mouth, my tongue, my teeth… His lips were full like a woman’s but forceful as, I imagined, a man’s. I had closed my eyes, I had no idea what was happening around me, all too focused on the world which was that blessed kiss. Then I felt his hand, that all through the kiss had been resting ever so still there on my thigh, move up inch by inch. This added new spice to the kiss. Mozart became all the more dominant and forceful while I was reduced to a desperate slobbing. I have to admit that the situation in that moment was almost too much for me. Roused with awakened passion I lay there, needy like a child. Mozart must have felt this. He placed his hand right in between my legs, simply placed it there. I was no longer able to kiss very properly at all, I jerked up against his hand like a puppy desperate for love and affection.

Now that I look back on it, I can clearly see the connection between Mozart’s music and his love-making. It was happy, affectionate, without an ounce of revealed melancholy or doubt. It started very straight forwardly, like a kiss, with a kiss in my particular case, otherwise with a chirpy tune or melody that left you slightly blushing and intrigued. Then it led you through all the necessary passages with a routine-like ease, like the hands of a trained baker that shapes yet another loaf of bread, or the hands of an old florist as he puts together yet another wedding bouquet. What they create could very be something new and exciting, maybe even exotic, but it is done in such a natural and professional way that you would not question their skill or am even for a second. And just like when Mozart sat down by his piano to create a piece, he would make sure that every note that needed to be in the melody was indeed in the melody, all in the right order, all in his very own uniquely perfect balance. Such was his love-making too. He did not fumble as he unbuttoned my trousers, as he pulled them down, as he swiftly folded them and placed them atop his shirt beneath the divan. He did not stop for a moment, not even a second, as he freed my feet from my socks, as he took off his own trousers, his own socks.

It was over in less than a minute, the removal of that last barrier between the two of us. His pale hand caressed my inner thigh and I shuddered, begging silently for him to finally touch me, to ease this tension between us. I tried to kiss him; instead he bent down, kissing my neck, his hands coming up under my linen shirt, resting on my already heaving chest. Suddenly he was on top of me, now placing his sweet passionate kisses around the edge of my low collar, my collar bones and the exposed parts of my shoulders. I could feel his entire body pressing against mine, his chest also heaving, his heart also beating faster, his breathing also growing all the more shallow.

The upper parts of his thighs lay heavy on my lower torso. I could feel my blood pumping and pulsing, I was erected. Mozart, upon noticing this, gave me a smirk which I only vaguely perceived through my half-closed eyes. He parted his legs ever so slightly and let his thighs, already lubricated with sweat, embrace me, slowly. I gasped. This was certainly more than I had bargained for, almost a crescendo. It took a lot of will power not to let myself go over the edge right there and then. My spine curled, and at once one of Mozart’s hands was there to support my spine and hold me even closer.

He held me thus, while he forced my through his thighs several more times. He raised his other hand to my mouth, putting first two, then three fingers inside it. I made a mess, I drooled, and I had never experienced pleasure such as this. I felt how Mozart grew erect as well, I felt it against my stomach every time he pushed me forward. It intrigued me, it aroused me, and I wanted to touch it. I managed to free one hand from Mozart’s iron grip, managed to stick it in between the two of us. I heard Mozart audibly moan as I grasped him. That sound intoxicated me, it made me feel really quite reckless. I began moving my hand, trying to please him.

But upon doing so, Mozart heaved himself back up on his elbows and looked me straight in the eyes. I flustered, I felt embarrassed, I could not carry on. I let my hand fall limp to my side.

“You’re moving too quick, young Maestro”, Mozart said, “You’re ruining my symphony.”

He had stopped moving his hips. I groaned, I wanted to be touched, I needed to be touched. “Please Wolfy”, I begged, and that seemed to convince him, just as I had hoped. He dragged himself downward, all the while planting kisses along the inside of my now completely limp arm. He continued until he was at level with my hips, and then, with no sign of warning nor hesitation, he took me in his mouth.

He was getting more impatient now, I could tell, because he did not about this quite as slowly or delicately as his past advances; he swallowed me whole. It was a wonder that he did not gag, let alone choke. I may not be very tall, but I do not lack in equipment either. I had managed to prop myself up a bit against the cushions of the divan, so I was able to follow the whole situation as it unfolded itself below my dreamy gaze. Mozart, with his rapid, needy movements of the head and mouth looked to me quite like a hungry animal, and this seemed really so befitting that I could not help but to tell him this. He interrupted himself for only a second to grin up toward me and say: “Why, how do you think I got my nickname in the first place?”

Then I gather he felt a bit too submissive being watched like that, because he returned to his eager sucking by licking me greedily from the shaft to the head, causing me to erupt in a loud moan. I was praying silently to God that Frau Schwartz was really as fast asleep as Mozart had claimed her to be, or else we would really be in great trouble. But pleasure was too strong for me now to think of anything but Mozart’s hot mouth embracing m, his teeth lightly scraping the very root of my shaft. I tried to watch him, because he looked positively better than ever bent down over me like that, but as the waves of pleasure kept crashing over me at an increasingly rapid speed I found it close to impossible not to shut my eyes. I gathered I was close to the edge now, and this I tried to convey to Mozart, however my sentence came out a mess, totally incoherent, and to my horror Mozart did not remove his head, nor did he take me out of his mouth – he just kept sucking.

I realized later that this must have been his idea of a grand finale, like the last, perfect notes of every symphony he ever composed. The ending must always be the most satisfying thing of all, like the missing puzzle pieces finally put in place, the last finishing touch to a painting. Such was the ending he gave to me, for it had all been building up to that point ever since he kissed me, and I had felt nothing more satisfying in all my life than that last wave of pleasure, so much greater than the others that it made me take that final step over the edge, and over the edge were the gardens of Eden, where it was eternally late spring and angels sang high above the clouds. I let out an involuntary, high-pitched moan, a sound I did not know myself to be capable of making.

When at length I opened my eyes again. I realized that Mozart had not drawn back in time, but that this seemed to have been his intention all along. He looked a mess – his wig was ruffled, his makeup smeared, and running from his lower lip down to his chin was a small stream of white substance, traces of what he had just swallowed. He licked it away with a grin, but I could see the longing in his eyes.

“Touch me”, he said, “please.”

I hastily obeyed, for he sounded so sad, so deprived of that which I had just so willingly given to me. Sitting up, I pulled him too upwards, so that we sat facing one another. His shirt had strayed far up beyond his hips – I could see all of him. Not feeling quite ready to indulge in this using my head, I directed Mozart so that we were facing the same way, allowing me to embrace him in my lap. Resting my head on his shoulder, sitting very close, I began to stroke him up and down, which ignited very loud moans from the composer.

Feeling inspired by our earlier endeavors, I put a couple of fingers in his mouth to keep him from finally waking the landlady up. I had never seen a man so needy. He was thrusting up into my hand, lubricated with sweat and his own fluids, while slobbily sucking my fingers and drooling extensively. I was almost beginning to feel quite uncomfortable when at last he came, staining my hand, his own legs and the divan.

I removed my fingers. He was panting heavily. Coming down from my sexually ignited high, I was starting to feel quite sober again. What had we done? What had I done? Mozart turned around.

“Ludwig…” He began, but I was already coming off the divan.

“No, _mein Herr_ …” In my confused, regretful state, I returned to polite language without being completely aware of how incredibly silly it must have sounded considering what we had just engaged in. And when Mozart started to laugh at me, even though I now understand the frankly logical reasoning behind it, I was overcome by fury, so much so that I found myself rendered speechless. There were so many things I wanted to tell him at that moment – how absolutely rude his behavior had been during the entire night, how insulting his advances and his lack of proper interest in me and my carrier, the lack of tutoring or at least plans for future lessons – I could go on all day. There were so many wrongs in his acting, bust only thinking about just how improper he had been made me incapable of physically opening my mouth and expressing any of these things.

This moment of silence Mozart used to haul himself up from the divan too, seize my face in his hands and kiss. I do not know if he had sensed my anger toward him, and if he had, if he was trying to soothe my sore feelings or simply aimed to provoke me even further. In any case, that kiss was indeed the very last drop for me. For a moment I stood immobile while making up my mind. The next I was hastily putting on all of my clothes, deaf to all of Mozart’s apologies and explanations. I ran out of the room, bolted down the stairs and out the door, to see whether my cart was waiting for me or not. To my utter surprise, it was, even though I recognized the extraordinarily late hour. I climbed inside while repeating my apologies over and over, and assured the driver that I would pay him his weight in gold if he just brought me back home as quickly as possible, which he (to my luck) gladly did.

Once I arrived back at my lodgings I was far too tired to write anything, but now here it is – the full account of my unfortunate meeting with _Wolfgang Amadè Mozart_. And for as long as I am alive, I pray to God that I shall never have to see that man ever again.


End file.
